Adult winners

First Place

Playa del Carmen
Lovely, to walk on the bones of the sea:
rose bones, tamarind bones,
red and black bones. Arms of the sea,
hands of the sea
grains of skull and knuckle.

Like our bones: our dead mothers,
our dead brothers
and someday, mine too. But, poor bones,
they have no colors— bleached white.

And nobody picks them up.
And nobody polishes them
or places them in her pocket.

—Lisa Trombley

Lisa’s quite a prolific poet. In addition to taking first place in this year’s contest, she also has two honorable mentions. She graduated from Chico State with a degree in English in 1991 and is beginning grad school this coming spring. Trombley is currently a banker and attends writing workshops as a way of expressing and sharing her love of writing with others in the community.

Second Place

They Talk Only in the Rain
In the bitter, black night
that lasts until Spring.
The Neighbors watch
lights impregnate the hill.
Noise fills the valley,
frightening bears in the forest.
The gurgle of rain echoes in gutters
vibrating bread and beer on the table.
Shouts of drunken exuberance
to “Katyusha” on the old phonograph.
The solemn faced wood-chopping man
dances red in the firelight.
Furniture pushed to the walls,
floorboards bend to the rhythm.
Dust falls from the cracks
fertilizing the soil.

Rain soaks the seed.
Blooming in lightning.
Pollinating to thunder.

“The quiet dead come alive tonight.”
Misha says to his wife.

—Jesse Pluim

Jesse is a 24-year-old graduate student at the Monterey Institute of International Studies. He enjoys reading, writing and collecting old films. This isn’t his first appearance in the CN&R’s pages, either. He had an honorable mention in last year’s poetry contest.

Third Place

October Poem
The witches glide down
To the prayer of the clock.
In the twelve-hammered gong
They spin.
In the buttermilk blue
Of the moon
They churn the night.

And they rub
And they twirl
And they scratch and they grind
Til the straw is alive
With flame,
Like the first stroke of morning
On fire
In the low hanging clouds.

—Bob Garner

Bob Garner has always been intrigued by the fall season; hence “October Poem,” which he wrote specifically for his favorite time of year. He has returned to Chico State at age 61 to enrich his love for poetry. His passions have helped get him involved with several writing workshops in the Chico community.

Honorable mentions

Sloughouse Grill and Bar
She says, “Don’t you go, baby.” Grinds molasses
knuckles. He says, “Chicken shit! Git your honey
ass gone.” He don’t mean it, though. She pours moonshine,
silver ice over.

He says, “Fix me collard greens, woman.” She sighs:
lemon river, hominy railroad. Southern
Comfort flatbed. Sassafras love. And bourbon.
Highways ice over.

She says, “Bloodhound, do me right.” He moans, crushes
beer cans. Big rig, hauler box, buckler, wrangler,
possum trapper. She boils blood sausage, squeezes.
Tire iron lovers.

—Lisa Trombley

The Weaver Boys
The lanky Weaver boys are playing catch
Among the poplars on the lawn.
The Weavers and the poplars are a match
As was their father, but he’s gone.
The lawn spreads wide around the house
Which, faint in purple evening shade,
Looks as their mother used to watch
Before her garden blooms decayed.

The poplars bend, the Weavers sway
A dim ball twirls across the dusk
And lands inside a glove: the only noise
That neighbors, passing, take away
From swaying poplars, dying day
And wraiths of lanky Weaver boys.

—Dr. Donald P. Veith (1915-1998) edited by David Veith

Shale Rib
I found a shale rib,
Broken from the soil.
A fossil bone of silt.

Below is the ocean,
Walled by concrete.
It flails and grinds.

Fog absorbs the sun
In rafted coolness
And glowing cloud.

There out-cropped,
Shale bones balance
In the ocean mist.

—Dylan Burge

Limerick #5
A prostitute who called herself Rose
Told her client to take off his clothes;
His socks were argyle
Which caused her to smile,
But you can’t judge a man by his hose.

—Timothy Muir

When the Athenians Marched on Plataea
When the Athenians marched on Plataea
Their feet were as hard as horn
But the balm went rancid in the pot

While their women sat
Staring into the embers

Returning, they would scorn the hearth
And pace the streets for brawls
Or the rattle of lots

Muttering for Athena and
Spitting bloodied teeth

In the academies meaning was condensed
To sound and sound to script
To inscribe was to call down fire

If it was written The Fire Fell
Then the fire fell

Knowing this, you stay wide of home
And I neglect the fire

—Becky Anker

No Beach Access
the sea, rattling its chains

folds, unfolds, folds us

layers scrolled slowly
over the news

almost alone

almost an echo here
of the loud eons
that assembled this coast

fog-paled rock
folded, tilted, thrust, doubled, fractured, refolded

fallen apart
broken open

a morning of how many worlds

—Sally Allen McNall

The River
On the day I met you
the cook was asking the waitress to marry him
bellowing from the open flame
to the counter where she was standing.
She thought he was joking, but why did he do this every day?
and that’s not even the main story.

—Jennie Hammett

Sharon’s Sunday Drive

Power poles lift lines
like skirt-hems. Mustard blossom
tufts between girded
thighs. Under the overpass,
spring shade nudges cool concrete.

—Lisa Trombley

Plums
We did not decide
no more plums,
no Santa Rosas with their delicate cheeks,
no elephants dusky as desire
no prunes, golden interiors covered in royal ovals
yet somehow

no more plums.
Not in the icebox,
not in the grocery cart,
nor at the market.
No trauma to resolve,

only this:
once we ate plums all summer long
juicy, sticky, sometimes
tart enough to pull our lips tight,
make us laugh at each other.
And then

we did not.
Today I searched for fruit for our
empty larder and found these.
Today I bring you again
plums.

—Barbara Alderson

an afternoon in march
the large black bee
drawn by the warmth of the sun
and the early blooms of the potted
plum
rests softly on the air
harlequin face
smeared yellow with pollen
legs bulging like pantaloons
pausing a moment
almost as if contemplating
one final fluttering of petals and
antic pistils
but turns and
     at last
     labors off
head bent slightly in flight by
the heavy load
yielding to the wisdom of delight

—Scott Foran

Nighthawks
Desert heat slows the pulse.
Breathe shallow.
Nighthawks dart
close to the Celestial Pole.

Together we wade
knee-deep in stars.
Sand warms our toes,
raw wind prickles our skin.

The iguana and horned toad
                are buried.
Their sun is dead.
Shooting stars heat our dawn.
                Wake me
when another night is here.

—Jim Manning

Ode to the ‘ffeine
to the half-caff double-whip
which ruptures the walnut meat of
brain’s morning doldrums
with electric hazelnut currents
lends rusty thoughts the adhesive shimmer
of Oklahoma chrome shifts projects from to-do
to finished like hunted deer processed
at the back door of Rapid Repair
there at the junction of Hogsback
and the Hooker Auction bypass
the Lotta Latte crowd testifies
their triple shot “Trinity Round Up”
the Guernsey of Coffee
certified thrifty and motor-driven
forbidden to no one
write it into our Constitution
our right to be wired
our freedom to espresso

—Ki Koenig

Zazen
Hands enter warm suds,
scrub filthy pots and pans,
washing away
grease and grit—
the splendid particles
of sorrow.

The mind empties.

Sink filled
with grimy dishes.
No zafu cushion needed.
Just care and compassion
for filthy saucers—
thought rising,
thought falling.

The body breathes.

Clink of china: meditation bell ringing—
teacher is ready,
student has appeared.
Sow seeds
of inner contentment,
fingers loving
goblets and plates.

—Shannon Rooney

man and daughter
they worked together to stack the woodpile,
feet set squarely, backs bent,her face a softened shadow of his own.
she wore a too-large pair of gloves,
their wide leather mouths slapping loosely against her wrists
as she tried to match the swinging pace of his popeye arms
and smiling all the while.

—Scott Foran